by J. F. Penn
Morgan paused, then nodded, aware that she was in a holy place and the stone was her first priority. She felt for a pulse in the attacker’s neck. It was weak, but he was still alive. Quickly she felt in his jacket and took his gun, tucking it into the back of her jeans. She kicked his bloody knife into the crypt behind the locked gate. Then she pulled the man’s belt off, used it to tie his hands and finally stuffed one of the ornamental altar pieces into his mouth as a gag.
Moving close to the priest, Morgan knelt and put pressure onto his wound, trying to stem the bleeding. It wasn’t deep, as his voluminous robes had caught the force of the blow but he was still in pain.
“I have to get you help, but that man was also looking for the stone of the Apostle James. You said before that I must know more. You’re right, I have a stone myself, from John, the beloved disciple.”
She reached into her shirt and pulled out the stone that hung around her neck. The old man reached up and gently touched it, his eyes bright in wonder and reverence despite the pain he was in.
“La Piedra de Dios.” He spoke in a whisper. “The stones are a secret carried by only a few through millennia but I heard rumors of a reckoning. There’s a prophecy that speaks of a new Pentecost in the end times.”
“I don’t know if this is that time, Father, but I have to find the stone and I need to get you some help. Let me call someone.”
He shook his head. “Not yet. If others come, you won’t be able to take the stone from the crypt.”
Morgan’s eyes widened.
“It’s here, then?”
The old man looked away from her into the darkness of the crypt.
“I’m clearly no longer able to protect the stone,” he said. “But will you protect it for the church, Morgan Sierra?”
She hesitated, and then spoke honestly. “I’m not a Christian, Father, but my sister’s life is at stake and I need the stones to get her back.”
He sighed.
“You’re a Keeper and the stones know their masters. It’s time for this one to be seen again.”
He pointed at the gold and silver reliquary behind the locked gate, his hand shaking.
“It’s in there. I’ve never seen it myself but the relics were authenticated in 1884 by Pope Leo XIII. At that time, my great great grandfather was a silver worker. He fashioned the reliquary and was given the stone to hide by the Pope himself. They were trying to protect the stones by ensuring they stayed apart.”
“Why was it so urgent to hide the stones?” Morgan asked.
“Pope Leo had a vision that year which shook him deeply.” The priest crossed himself, his eyes haunted. “He heard the voices of God and the Devil while praying at his private altar. Satan boasted that given 100 years he could destroy the Church and gain absolute power over the faithful. It seems that God would allow Satan to do his worst as he did with the prophet Job. But Pope Leo was determined to bolster the Church’s power and ensure that the Devil didn’t claw a foothold. Hiding the Pentecost stone was just one of the things he did to protect the Church from those who would use its power for evil.”
“So where did they hide the stone? Did your father tell you?”
The priest nodded.
“It’s molded into the top of the reliquary. Here, take this and you can see for yourself.”
He produced a key from his vestments and gave it to her, waving her towards the locked gate and the ornate box inside. Morgan unlocked the gate, pushing the creaking door inwards. The reliquary was a large engraved silver chest, resting on top of a mahogany table in the center of the crypt. An altar stood before it with large candlesticks and a crucifix. She inched her way behind the altar.
“Look at the top,” the old man called faintly from behind her. “There are two raised silver discs. The stone is hidden under one of them.”
“But which one?” Morgan ran her fingers over the silver detail, marveling that the stone could be here. “And how the hell do I get it out?”
“My father told me of a mechanism to release the stone. On the sides of the box are scallop shells. Count three in on the left side.” Morgan followed his directions. “Follow the seam to the figure underneath. That’s the servant of James, the first Keeper. He holds the key to the stone. That’s all my father told me, passed down from his father before him.”
Morgan looked closely. The figure seemed to be the same as the other molded statues on the side of the reliquary. She bent closer and saw that his staff didn’t seem to be part of the molding. It was a separate piece of metal. She carefully pried it out of the hands of the servant, a sliver of metal finely tooled, like a needle with a hooked end shaped like a scallop shell. She felt over the raised dials on the top of the box, acutely aware that it might contain one of the most holy relics in Christendom, the bones of the Apostle James. Her fingers found a tiny hole in the dial on the left side and she pressed the metal shard into the little space. It slid in snugly but nothing happened. She tried lifting it like a lever and the silver dial opened smoothly to reveal a plain grey stone in the space beneath.
“It’s here,” she said with reverence. She still couldn’t believe the stones contained innate power, just that they were wanted by a madman, but here was a priest who swore there was something to the myth. She gently lifted the stone out of its hiding place and closed the lid with care. Removing the tiny silver lever, she returned it to the servant’s figure and went back out. The old priest held out his hand.
“Please let me see it,” he said. “I’ve spent years making sure it stayed hidden. Now I release it to you for protection.”
Morgan knelt by his side and laid it on his palm. It was just a plain stone, dark grey with rough edges, nothing out of the ordinary. Where her own had been hidden in plain sight, decorated as jewelry, this one seemed to be as clean as when it was hacked from the tomb of Christ himself. The old man closed his hand around the precious object, his eyes closed in prayer. Morgan watched as he seemed to lighten and relax as he prayed. Then she heard shouting above them in the cathedral nave. A hacking cough jolted through the old man and he clutched at his wound, blood staining the stone. He gave it back to her.
“You must go now. Take it far away. The other priests will find me soon enough and I’ll explain this mess away. After all this time, it’s good to know the stones will be together again. Now go and be careful.”
He pointed Morgan towards the exit staircase, one hand on his chest, the other waving her away.
“Thank you. I’ll keep it safe.”
Then she turned and walked up the stairs, leaving the old priest in the darkness below.
When she reached the main nave of the cathedral she could see what all the noise was about. Jake was suspended in the dome of the church, swinging on a thick rope and laughing maniacally, playing the part of a crazy pilgrim to a perfect end. After her experience in the crypt she could only suspect he had a run in with other men from Thanatos and had found a unique way to handle the situation. Looking up at him from the gathered crowd, she realized that he was making her smile despite the terrible situation she found herself in. She reluctantly considered that he was a good partner to have around, whatever the motives of ARKANE. She needed to signal to him that she had found James’ stone, but how to get his attention in this crazy circus? She had to do something even more outrageous to attract Jake’s attention as she left.
Morgan looked around and saw the Holy Door of the Pardon, now unguarded as all the security guards were trying to bring Jake down from the Dome. They would retrieve him soon, so she needed to get his attention while he was still high up. She knew that the Holy Door was only meant to be opened in the Holy Years, when the Saint’s Day of St James fell on a Sunday. This was not a holy year so Morgan knew that opening this door would attract attention. More people were flocking into the main church to see the spectacle and the security team was surrounded so they wouldn’t have time to reach her before she was away.
Making her decision, Morgan walked quickl
y towards the Holy Door. Clearly the ancient lock was just for show. She pulled the gun she had taken from the attacker and shot it away. The sharp bang and resounding screams in the church drew attention away from Jake and towards her. She knew he would have seen her. Morgan yanked the door open and ran out into the Plaza de la Quintana behind the cathedral. Knowing security and the police would soon be after her, she disappeared into the back streets of Santiago de Compostela leaving Jake to fend for himself.
Tucson, Arizona, USA
May 20, 10.08pm
Jose Ramirez pulled the blanket closer around him as he curled into the doorway, trying to make himself invisible. He had walked most of the day, always moving, to avoid the police who seemed to be on every corner. He had tried to cultivate an air of going somewhere, of being on an errand. He didn’t want to seem journey-less. Arizona was cracking down on illegal immigrants, but how did America expect them to stop coming when there was opportunity here, even if you had to fight to get it? Jose had spent his last coins on a meal earlier and considered how he would make it through tomorrow. Maybe his cousin would help out, if he could only make it that far north. But at least the Tucson streets were warm enough all year round to make waking up tomorrow a likely event. Jose started to feel sleep easing him away from the hard ground, when a vehicle pulled up near him, engine idling. He lay motionless, hoping it was not the police or immigration come to take him away. If he stayed very still, perhaps they wouldn’t even see him.
A car door slammed and footsteps came towards him. No chance of escaping notice then, he thought. He sat straight up, preferring to see who it was, to give himself a chance if he needed to run. A man stood in front of him dressed in black fitted clothes. He didn’t look like a cop. A van marked ‘Tucson State Shelter’ was parked on the road behind him.
“Do you need somewhere to stay?” the man asked. “We have a shelter and food for the night. You shouldn’t be on the streets.”
“I’m OK here, man. I’m moving on tomorrow. Thanks for the offer.”
“There may be work tomorrow if you come with us.” The man was insistent. “We have some construction going on at the shelter. You could help out and earn some cash. You need some money right now?”
Jose considered his options. The money would definitely come in handy. He ignored his misgivings and nodded. Then he picked up his blanket and meager bag of possessions and walked towards the van. The man opened the back and waved him inside.
Jose realized his mistake as soon as the door shut behind him. Another man was hidden within, who grabbed him as soon as he stepped inside. Slammed down on the floor, he felt a needle being pushed into his neck. He struggled wildly, shouting as the van drove off until the drugs silenced him. There was no one to hear him on the street outside, and security cameras would only show a homeless man being helped to shelter for the night. No one would report him missing. No one even knew he was there.
***
Jose woke up to the dull thunk of wood being chopped. It was a sound he knew well from his childhood in Mexico where he would cut wood for the cooking fire with his father. His head was fuzzy but he could feel his hands tied behind him and his feet secured tightly. He opened his eyes and realized he was strapped to a wooden post, stacked firewood around his legs. A gag was wrapped around his mouth, the stink of smoke and some other rank smell on the material. A man was watching him. A tall slim figure, expensively dressed, who caressed a stone that lay in the palm of his hand.
“The Lord’s fire purifies as well as destroys.” The man said with a smooth tone, as if he were a professor giving a lecture to interested students, not to a terrified homeless man tied to a post. “Fire has been part of ritual sacrifice through many geographies and to many gods. It was the death assigned to martyrs of the Christian faith, and was a favored instrument of mercy for the Dominicans in the auto da fe of the Spanish Inquisition. You are in esteemed company, my friend.”
The drugs had completely worn off now and Jose began to struggle as another man began piling up smaller logs and kindling around his legs, stacking it close.
‘Please,’ Jose tried to speak and plead with his eyes. ‘Why?’ was the question on his lips. The firewood was piled high enough now, and the man leaned in to look at him more closely. He reached forward and put the stone over Jose’s head so it hung against his chest. Jose could feel the weight of it, coolness against his flesh, and yet he knew it would soon be searing pain.
“This stone is a blessing for you. You should be honored that I have chosen you to die in this way, wearing the stone of the Apostles, symbol of the brotherhood in Christ.”
He stepped back and signaled to the man behind him, who brought out a can of gasoline. He sloshed it over Jose and the pile of wood beneath him. Jose struggled again in his bonds, seeing his death upon him and terrified of the pain to come. He screamed against his gag, the throttled noise stifled by material that was now drenched in gasoline. He shut his eyes in fear, feeling the soaked clothes he stood in and whimpering, praying wildly for some miracle to save him. Then Jose heard the click of a lighter, and the man lit a taper.
“So long, my friend. Let the fire take you through.”
The light dipped, small flames crackled and began to take hold. The initial warmth grew quickly to sparks which caught on the gasoline, exploding into tongues of flame, engulfing Jose. His legs began to burn and he howled into the gag as the agony spread, obliterating his consciousness. He died with a last prayer on his blackened lips. It was only a few minutes before the skin on the man’s body had burnt through and flames consumed his flesh.
Joseph Everett stood watching, engrossed in the patterns of the fire, a wet cloth over his mouth and nose to block the stench of gasoline and cooking flesh. He watched for the moment the man died, his spirit transfigured into flame, a meditation of life into death. He gazed as the glowing stone burnt into the man’s flesh, bright gold lit by the dancing fire. This was how the spiritual masters felt when their souls were refined, he thought with triumph. This was the moment of glory.
The fire was just embers and ashes when he removed the stone. He cracked it from the burnt chest cavity and pulled it over the corpse’s head. Joseph didn’t touch it, but wrapped it in a pure white linen cloth, feeling the last of the warmth it contained. Then he headed out in the dawn, back towards the city and the hospital, leaving his men to clean up the mess. Perhaps this time …
Santiago de Compostela, Spain
May 20, 2.45PM
Jake arrived back at the airport in a Spanish police vehicle and bounded up the steps into the plane. Morgan lay back reading one of the Moleskine journals on the reclining seats.
“Coffee?” Morgan lifted the fresh mug at him nonchalantly. “Just made, still fresh in the pot.”
Jake grinned at her.
“Glad you were so worried about me. Nice diversion with the Holy Door. You should have seen the faces of the priests as you left, with me still swinging in the dome. All their worst nightmares come true.”
“I think the pilgrims will suffer with enhanced security from now on,” she replied with a smile, sitting forward on her chair. Jake sat down next to her.
“The police mentioned there was a stabbing in the crypt. Are you okay?”
“One of the Thanatos guys made it down there but he didn’t win this prize.” Morgan pulled the stone from her pocket and handed it to Jake. “This one is somehow more authentic than the ones we have already. It’s hardly been touched. There’s no decoration or carving like the others.”
Jake examined it.
“Do you think we should be feeling something now we have three stones in one place? Should we be speaking in tongues or something?”
“You believe that about as much as I do,” Morgan replied with a smile. She took the stone back and tucked it away deep in her jacket pocket. “But I still need to get the others. Whatever they can do, we need to hurry for Faye and Gemma’s sake.”
“I know,” Jake sat down at the tab
le, putting his hand over hers briefly. She waited just a second before she pulled her hand away and the moment was broken. He noticed a curl of dark hair hanging down across her face and she brushed it back behind her ear, her skin luminous from the Spanish sun shining through the plane window.
Jake had known she would get back from the church with no problems. When he had seen the Holy Door open and Morgan dash out, he had slid back down the rope and let the police take him away, knowing she was safe. They made a good team, and what he had heard about the fight in the crypt made him even more sure of the fact. He had only heard second hand about what happened, but clearly she could look after herself and that confidence made her strangely unapproachable. He hadn’t met a woman like her in a long time. Someone he didn’t have to look after. He snapped out of it.
“I need to speak to Marietti and report back. Maybe we can get some help on our next location.”